Behind Enemy Lines
by paradises
Summary: SSET Closed; feel free to follow along! / On the centennial anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that they willingly caused their own suffering, the 100th Hunger Games, will be held. May the odds be ever in your favor / "They're coming for us," she says; hearts slip into despair, "—and we know what must be done."
1. prologue

Behind Enemy Lines (Hunger Games): AU. S-Y-O-T open. Nothing in the Capitol can rest in peace forever, especially not for Panem, as the annual tradition must be upheld. To pay for their rebellions, the 100th Hunger Games will be a Quarter Quell. / Her heart skips a beat, "They're coming for us."

**prologue**

Footsteps lead to shadows, which loom in a threatening manner across the freshly polished linoleum floors, reflections easily seen, yet the individuals gathered outside a fine set of mahogany doors are not peering into the floor, adjusting their wigs, instead rather glaring outside of the windows, into the destruction of what used to be a magnificent nation, governed by no other than themselves. Somewhere, twelve districts away, the tributes are waiting, gathered to be prepared for the livestock; training sessions will follow soon after the reapings, but the ones who are waiting know what will be happening. A girl perches upon a dilapidated bench, the structure falling beneath her weight, crumbling through the sand as she falls onto the floor, eyes opening to a pair of trainers, who grimace, their lips turning maliciously into a smirk as they drive the sword through her stomach.

As if on instinct —which it might very well be, she turns over, driving a similar weapon through their hearts, smiling at the blood that comes draining out, and the weak expressions on their face as they beg for mercy, before standing up, brushing her hands out of the sand and rinsing the blood out. _This will be an interesting games, _she thinks to herself, following a paved path to the House, an iron made structure home to the Duke and Duchess of Panem, who sit, hands folded as the announcement is made, televised live.

"Congratulations, Panem," the Duke begins in a snide voice, sniveling. "You have very well asked for this from the start of the rebellions; as you all know, the Games are an annual tradition, that I like to think bring us _together. _As of now, we need that more than ever, which is why I'm asking you to start the procedures of the reapings; things might have been different before I was in power, but think differently now. Welcome to the 100th Annual Hunger Games, a Quarter Quell. Prepare to laugh and cry with your favourite tributes, and watch them die."

And, with that, the television snapped off, black screens turning towards a _Family Guy _cartoon, while the population of the country knew the end was coming.

**::**

**a/n: **This is really short; but, then again, it's a prologue. I've had this SYOT idea for a long time, and I think that it would be really interesting if more people could submit tributes, but I think that two tributes per user will be good, if that's possible. I'll put the form below, but please remember to **review **the forms instead of PM'ing them to me, since I have a huge inbox. This is a **first come, first serve **basis, and all accepted tributes will be updated regularly on my profile. Thanks, and may the odds be ever in your favour, :) Also, if you've read this far, review "gallagher girl" for an extra point to your tribute, or a tribute of your choice. Each review/follow receives one point, along with a submission/unique idea for the games.

**Name:**

**Gender:**

**Age:**

**District:**

**Height:**

**Weight (body type is fine, "pear shaped" or "lean")**

**Eye Color:**

**Hair Color:**

**Hair Style:**

**Specialty:**

**Favorite Weapon (optional, depending on the type of person):**

**Family Members:**

**Reasons to Win:**

**Romance (in the arena / pre-games)**

**Token:**

**Occupation (if any):**

**History/Background:**

**Family Status (poor, middle class, upper):**

**Are Any Family Members Past Victors? If so whom:**

**Hobbies:**

**Friends (if any, if there are some, limit them to about a close knit group of two or three good friends):**

clara


	2. final list of tributes

**DISTRICT 1:**

**F: Sarapri Janessa Martine / Ivy000**

**M: Topaz Marks / Kongyroo1**

**DISTRICT 2:**

**F: Perquet Valley / splendeur**

**M: Kai Gladius / PeenissandClato**

**DISTRICT 3:**

**F: Ashley Renee / XxXTheGirlOnFireXxX**

**M: Bose Clapburn / GoldenFeatherKyru**

**DISTRICT 4:**

**F: Waverly de Lune / miyame-chan**

**M: Niall Blake / BecauseofKillianJones**

**DISTRICT 5:**

**F: Bena Larykn / PeenissandClato**

**M: Volkner Jax / SputnikHolly**

**DISTRICT 6:**

**F: Bianca Mave / BecauseofKillianJones**

**M: Carrie Song / xXAzuraXx**

**DISTRICT 7:**

**F: Phoebe Jent / Purplette237**

**M: Alder Springer / charliesunshine**

**DISTRICT 8:**

**F: Dimity Arachne / The Demented Kawaii Queen**

**M: Velveeta Lisle / The Demented Kawaii Queen**

**DISTRICT 9:**

**F: Isis Voltage / charliesunshine**

**M: Leo Cypress / DirectionerGirl**

**DISTRICT 10:**

**F: Holly Diggin / AthenaGal01**

**M: Preston Barnhills / Axe Smelling God**

**DISTRICT 11:**

**F: Oriole Jay / Ivy000**

**M: Nero Radiant / FinnicksFan**

**DISTRICT 12:**

**F: Asphodel Triad / Daughter of Oceanus**

**M: Wax Staey / splendeur**

**DISTRICT 13:**

**F: Delmer O'Driscoll / MTNGWM**

**M: Maverick Temple / DauntlessTribute**

* * *

**a/n: **Wow, okay, that went really quickly —quicker that I had originally expected, which is definitely a plus. Just for clarification purposes, **each review counts as a point for your tribute.** All points will be posted daily, at ten o' clock in the morning, central time (United States). I'll be posting the first _real _chapter, of the reapings for districts one through seven tomorrow, around midday. There will be a semi-hiatus, soon (check my profile for details). Thanks for all the submissions; all the spots went by in under twenty four hours, and I'm sorry if your tribute wasn't accepted!

clara


	3. reapings (1-6)

**3**

**THE REAPINGS**

**(DISTRICTS 1-6)**

::

**DISTRICT ONE**

Bells clang in the distance, lights guiding her towards a place far away from home —glazed eyes scan over the remainders of ashes and dust, washed away in the airy breeze, found only in a place such as this, and there was no other place Sarapri Janessa Martine despised as much. There are leftovers, obviously, leftovers of her family, their broken brittle bones cast carelessly into an adjacent field of daisies, ironically the flower of the dead; a faint smell of lilacs floats over the cemetery, reminding her of the years that she had spent at the Preserve. "Sarapri; you shouldn't be up here, not today, of all times, to visit the grave." The deep voice echoes, cracking a little.

"You don't understand, Topaz," Sarapri smiles a little. _Please, please, please, seriously don't ask me any more questions since I won't have answers that don't end up with tears ruining your Reaping Day shirt. _"This grave is my mother's grave. How could I not visit her?" She rises, tears visibly falling down her cheeks. "She was the one who wanted me to go in the Games; you know that she's the one who helped me train." Of course, like most of the children in the first district, Sarapri had the typical doting father —nobody truly knew the reason why he was that doting; nobody else besides her, her father, a few select maids, and Topaz knew about her mother's death. For all they knew, Mrs. Martine was currently diagnosed with a slight cold and was immediately taken to the Capitol for treatment.

Of course, Topaz understood. "You have to go down." He awkwardly set a reassuring hand onto her right shoulder, an offering she shrugged off. If it had been any other boy, literally _any other boy _in the entirety of District One (which had a population of nearly three thousand individuals), Sarapri would have accepted the gesture of affection, but this was Topaz, somebody who would never want to be entangled in romantic affairs, especially not at the age where one could be reaped.

"—I'll be down there in a min," she murmurs, fingering the pearl necklace that resides around her neck; it's her mother's pearl necklace, her mother who's dead and gone and who's never coming back, so why should Sarapri still care so much, anyway. She feels as though she'd rather fly away from this place than ever face anybody ever here again; she's put up cover after cover, and it's almost as though there's just so much cover-up that Sarapri's not even the same person under all those layers as she used to be before her mother died.

Within minutes, Sarapri finds herself all the way back at her household —it's more of a mansion-type, but then again, with a doting father, how could she not have everything she wanted; still, even this wasn't enough to cover up the everlasting sadness; fake smiles didn't seem to work, however, if somebody actually cared.

"Hey, honey." The said _ohsodoting _father casually walks into the room, grimacing at how messy everything had turned out after the party she had hosted a few days ago; after all, Sarapri had a reputation to hold as the district's most popular. "How was your day?" Sarapri fakes a smile, and moves on to clean her room.

On the other hand, it didn't look either of them were giving up —her father crossed his hands and his right palm clenched around the left; also, her room wouldn't stop smelling like poison and wine, no matter how many Capitol-esque perfumes she applied, along with the daily supply of air fresheners that the maids had left behind in the halls. Today was Reaping Day, and they had been given the day off; after all, there was a chance that their much poorer children, with taking all that tesserae, would definitely be reaped. However, they didn't know that some people actually wanted to be in the Games; Sarapri wasn't one of those people, however.

Her trainer had emphasized how important for her it was to volunteer _not _this year, but the next; she was seventeen now, and a year, Sarapri would most definitely be the most skilled female trainee in District One; it didn't matter, though. She wasn't going to volunteer, or even be in the Games in the first place, and nobody could question that. Her father lets out a cough. "I'll let you dress; I've laid something out for you." He leaves the room, quickly, and Sarapri frowns.

She gasps suddenly, murmuring a slight _ohmygod _underneath her breath, along with a few select swear words.

It was this dress that her father was talking about —it actually _was _her mother's wedding dress. Living in a place such as District One, Sarapri could afford all the luxuries, everything that she had ever wanted just because her father was that rich and had that many connections. However, something so beautiful and expensive and sentimental as this was everything that she needed to make it through Reaping Day, today. Just one more year, and she would be done with this. Then again, looking back at the dress, it was almost as if her father thought that something bad was going to happen, otherwise he wouldn't give his daughter, no matter how much of a doting father he was, the prized possession.

Nevertheless, Sarapri was standing in her appropriate age section fifteen minutes later, having had to have an emergency appointment when apparently, the Reaping Day times were changed to earlier in the day, around twelve o' clock, since District One would be the first district to be picked up; apparently, unlike the usual games, all of the tributes would be placed on the same train, at the same time, to _get to know each other better. _As if; they would be going to the Capitol to kill each other, not to make friends. "Well, hello, there." There was a strange looking woman, standing upon the pedestal.

The rest of the Reaping introduction goes by in a flash; Sarapri holds her breath as a name is called. "Callica Worthy!" And, then something instinctive went on with her as she saw the terrified expression on the twelve year-old blonde who she had trained with at a younger age; she had no chance of survival. Nobody else was going to volunteer, and she felt herself yelling the words, "I volunteer as tribute!"

Sarapri makes her way to the stage, numbly. "Sarapri Martine." There's flashes in the audience, and out of the corner of her eye, Sarapri can see her trainer who's sending her a disappointed glance, and she doesn't even make a moment to think about somebody else, like her father or the maids that have practically been the mother of her life ever since her mother had died. She thinks about other people, like what's going to happen to —_to Topaz._

Recently, she's realized that she's fallen in love with him; she's made out with every boy in the district in her age, and been pregnant twice (it doesn't matter though, that's just her cover); they don't have a chance, now though. He wouldn't have a romance with anybody, unless she came back from the Games as Victor, and he would be over the age of eighteen, which was this year. Everything was going to be perfect. They say _his name _out loud, and Sarapri's a little confused until she realized why the name has been called. "Topaz Marks and Sarapri Martine, these year's tributes to the 100th Annual Hunger Games!"

**DISTRICT TWO**

Laying around in her room doesn't seem to do much for the eighteen-year-old; she tightens the bracelet around her right wrist as her dark blonde hair twists out of its low bun at the nape of her neck. Perquet Valley looks outside of her window to see a typical District 2 scene, in the upper part of the neighborhood, at least —there are some cars zooming past, and others are parked by their respective house mansions, but the one with the odd license plate catches her eye, reminding her of a childhood game.

She's above all that, now, however; that was from the past, and being the victor of the Games is her present and future. There's a house at the edge of the road; it had iron wrought gates, and has always been protected, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, by the same burly security guards; she had watched them at night —they never moved, they never slept, they never made a motion to eat or drink, almost as if they weren't even human beings. Anything was possible, these days, however. Her eyes focus on the door, which echoes a familiar _knock-knock-knock. _"Come in," she mutters in a snooty voice, her fake accent shining through. After all, Perquet knew exactly who was going to be at the door; her suspicions were confirmed. "Oh, it's _you_."

"Nice to see you, too," Tomella replies, plopping down onto one of the beanbag chairs that were from Perquet's mother, Rallie's, the newest boutique in town; she was trying to make the place more _child-friendly, _speeding through themes faster than Perquet could throw knives and make a fatal impact. "Have you decided what you're going to wear; 'cause you know, you're going to volunteer this year, right? But you're wrong; I'm going to beat you to it."

"Is that so?" Perquet raises an eyebrow. This was _her _chance to shine, and nobody else was going to take that away from her, especially somebody who was one of her closest friends. She took a long glance at Tomella, examining the natural glow in her dark hair, which was pinned up in a chignon, perhaps by her stylist mother.

Tomella fingers the miniature carrots set down on a small plate, and puffs cold air into the steaming pot of boiling water; it was a family ritual. "You know that this year's my last year, and I have to live up to—"

"Is this about _Chloe?_" Perquet replies in a snooty voice, filled with disgust. Chloe was Tomella's sister, who had died in the Hunger Games three years earlier; you think that Tomella would get over the death, but no. She had to just keep on yakking and yakking about how her sister died, her sister died, she had to avenge her sister; it wasn't as though Tomella had a greater chance than Perquet at winning the Games; she wasn't as agile, or quick, or even trained as well with all the right resources. "This shouldn't be about Chloe; winning the Games is an honor."

"I know," Tomella replies, rolling her eyes. Of course it was an honor; especially in District 2, where winning the Games was something very highly regarded, as if it was the best occupation a person could ever be, a Victor; to live in the Victor's Village and have everlasting glory and fame, now that was the _teenage dream. _"Anyway, you better start choosing your outfit." Tomella checks the watch which dangled loosely off her bony wrist. "It's nearly one o'clock."

Perquet was aware of the time. "Then, you'd better go, Tomella. Don't want to be late, now do we?" she said in a mocking voice, shutting the door in Tomella's surprised face; by the time three minutes had passed, Perquet's friend had already left the mansion, and was walking through the city streets towards the Forum. Minutes later, Perquet had dressed in a simple training uniform —it modeled the ones that the Hunger Games tributes of the previous year had fought, and died, and one won in. Walking into the Forum, everybody's eyes turned to hers, even Tomella's, who was standing near the stage with the rest of the eighteen-year-olds.

Nobody was going to stop her, Perquet reminds herself. All she had to do was be loud, and be heard; it would be even better if she was reaped, but that was quite unlikely; she never took tessarae; with an upper-class family, better than all these assembled Plebians, there was no need to do something like that. Perquet didn't even bother listening to the longwinded lectures and the typical video which boomed loudly; she was standing near the speakers, and it unfortunately blasted into her ears. "And now...for our female tribute." The man made his way across the stage, his gold nails floating through the slips. _Oh, please, let it be me, let it be me, _Perquet hopes, closing her eyes tightly, and then opening them, feeling like a fool for the strange action, "—Perquet Valley!"

"I volunteer as tribute!" Perquet hears another voice shout, several voices in fact, but she cuts her way across the crowd, and runs onto the stage before any of them can take her place. She sees her parents in the distance giving her approving glares; for a moment, Perquet wonders if this is what she wants, or what she has been brought up to realize.

"Well, I reckon," the man said; up close, he was _much _scarier looking, though with her six feet of height, Perquet was a good five inches taller than the man, even though she was quite sure he was wearing some sort of genetically engineered shoes which made him appear taller, all the way from the Capitol; oh, how exciting. "Now, for the male tribute..." Her attention didn't go into a daze; all she knew is that there were a few people who shouldn't have been reaped. Like that guy with a gladiator name who had nearly crushed her when she was thirteen years old, or that twelve year old boy who was a certified killing machine. "Kai Gladius!"

They shake hands, and for a moment, Perquet feels afraid when Kai approaches her —after all, he was six feet and three inches of pure muscle, with the typical sea blue eyes of an Upper District member. All the details she knew about him was that he dated this girl, Milah Jones, but now their love was probably doomed, _star-crossed _even. He looks vicious enough, vicioius enough to kill her. Nevertheless, she stares him down with a tight grip in their handshake, lets go quickly, and gives a winning smile towards the crowd. After all, she was Perquet Valley, and she was going to win. They might as well remember her.

**DISTRICT THREE**

_Kick. Stomp. Push. Pull._

The commands echo through Ashley's head as she makes her way down the field, kicking and screaming as she goes; nobody was carrying her away, but it felt as though all the energy that she had consumed through those Capitol drinks and bars earlier that morning were of no avail. It wasn't one of the first times that a product from the Capitol went wrong, but there was no reason to question the government, who made people go missing all the time, bodies found years later. A wiry looking boy stands in front of her, probably not older than thirteen years old and he winces as the soccer ball makes contact with his shinbone and he flies into the grass, falling to the floor **—**Ashley would have felt bad for him _if he wasn't _the enemy team, a travel soccer team from the Woods region of the District.

Against common knowledge, District 3 and all of the other Districts didn't just exist within the Capitol-mandated electric fences, which were barely on, and if they were, it was during the evening hours when curfew had passed over; some people lived in the Woods, some people lived upon the mountains, but they were all citizens of Panem, nevertheless. She focuses her attention towards the goal, and performs a bicycle kick mid-air as the ball goes shooting through the net, and her teammates clamor around her, surrounding her in a group hug; it smells like sweaty uniforms and mud stains, which was pretty much _home, _at least for Ashley.

Everyone was hanging out on the vast green hockey field, which was surrounded by thick woods; the grass was always greener on the other side of the soccer field, filled with wiry frames continuously opting out of the game to use their inhalers. There were more nurses and doctors on the field than there were players, but it made sense; today was the Day of the Reapings, but for District Three, it was also their soccer tournament. Brushing the sweat that fell onto her cheeks and dribbled down her chin, Ashley Renee walks towards the bench, sitting down when the coach demands that she take a break —she had been playing for at least an hour, already, and the day had just begun.

There weren't many players, today, and Ashley understands just why; most of the soccer players who were actually good and trained were between the ages of twelve and eighteen, just like her, and were spending the day with their family members and friends, knowing that any day could be their last. Of course, district three did have _some _victors —a lot more than the outlying districts, in fact, but they couldn't ever match up to the Career districts that surrounded them.

Sometimes, the tributes from District Three were invited into the Career Alliance, but over the years of watching the re-runs, Ashley had learned that it was just a trap that nobody should fall for anymore; they were killed within a day, easy victims, almost as if they had lit a fire in the night. Technological value was the only important thing about the third district, and Ashley was sort of sick of the stereotype. "You're going to have to go home, Ash," Coach Byron announces, ticking off something on the clipboard.

"What's _that _supposed to mean?" she retorts, crossing her hands and placing one of them on her hips.

"You've got a caller," the Coach replies. "Those girls that used to do soccer with you?" The names echo throughout her head —Bailey, Emma, and Emily; the four of them had once been seriously, the _closest _of friends, but not anymore. They meet up in the coffee shop, in thirteen minutes.

Ashley feels out of place in her soccer gear, but it doesn't seem to matter; only Bailey's there, the rest of the girls must have ditched, because after all, Bailey was the nicest out of the four of them, each of them had their own labels; that was one way to say it. Emma was the _vicious _one, Emily was the _intelligent _one, and Ashley was the _sporty _one; not, really, but then again, thinking back on it, it wasn't as though they had known each other that well, if labels were all that mattered.

She finds Bailey sitting in one of the empty tables, waving goodbye at a taller looking boy. Her dark hair has been made lighter over the years, blonde highlights in the back and strongly reeks of chlorine from the several hours of swimming that Bailey participates in —Ashley remembered that they had all been on the swim team, together, when they were younger, but childhood was meant for things like play and they were all much older now. She was wearing a frilly black lace top that extends down to mid-thigh over a pair of aquamarine skinny jeans, ratty sneakers replaced by platforms; Bailey looks up from her phone. "Come on, c'mon, Ash!"

Dragging Bailey along with her by the arm, she finds herself pulled all the way to the Town Square. Most of the other districts, especially the Career ones, have a fancy Forum, but it was almost as if District Three couldn't afford something as nice as the normal types of Forums, with their sculptures and busts honoring the Capitol, almost in a godly sort of reverence as if the people of the districts were the worshippers, and the Capitol was filled with gods and goddesses. The Town Square was already filled up with most of the typical-looking candidates; "We're going to be late!" Bailey echos, dragging Ashley backstage. "If we're not there, and they can't find us, we _won't _be Reaped."

Bailey looked older than her thirteen years, but then again, even Ashley, who was only twelve, looked as though she was fifteen with the bags under her feeble looking blue eyes, not as fluorescent as they had been at a younger age. "This isn't going to work," Ashley whispers. _They were going to get caught. _She just knew it; and Ashley's hunches were usually right, at least from her knowledge and experience. She could see the assembled crowd from behind her hiding spot; Bailey was crouching down beside her and she recognized the familiar faces of her parents as they argued with the Peacemakers, who must have been insisting that they reveal the location of their daughter **—**for a moment, Ashley wonders if she could take the risk to show where she was, but it would ruin everything.

"Close call," Bailey whispers into her ear when one of the Capitol's Avoxes goes backstage to turn on the typical movie, which played every year, new footage being shot in the annual Victory Tours, something that was plain mocking to all of the losing Districts. The idea of the Victory Tours was to emphasize how these people were under the protection of the Capitol, and these were who you should try to be**—**at least that was what Ashley had heard.

"Ashley Renee, is the _female _tribute!" The words echoed through her mind, and she felt numb for a moment —she was twelve, yes, this couldn't be happening to her, this just couldn't. Before she knew it, Bailey had pushed her through the curtain, and the crowd started clapping, as if this was all a show. To them, and to the Capitol, it probably was, however with their fickle minds and deadly threats. "The _male_ tribute is...Bose Clapburn!"

Ashley winces outwardly and inwardly **—**_Bose Clapburn. _He was that gambler from down the street; Ashley had heard enough about him, the criminal boy who had killed thirteen people last year with two rods, along with the help of his brother Claus, who was more of a Peacemaker type, however. Though, she was from the middle class rank and he was one of the lower class, she was officially petrified. There was no way that she was making it out of the Games alive. "Happy Hunger Games!" The overexcited voice announces. _Happy Hunger Games, indeed._

**DISTRICT FOUR**

She likes to pretend that _this _day was like any other day —it really wasn't, but Waverly de Lune was always one for pretense and games—, so around midday, she ends up by the river when the sun was beating down on her half-bare back, the top covered only by her caramel highlighted hair. She sits by the water, feet dangling in as she catches a whiff of burnt something; perhaps it was the fish that her father had brought in earlier. It didn't exactly look so good, but times were hard and the family had to manage by. Though she was only sixteen, Waverly likes to pretend that she was ship captain in training, just like her father would have been if he hadn't have gotten into that accident when he was thirty, fifteen years back; instead, Frost de Lune was now a fisherman, but a skilled one.

In Waverly's district, people could be longliners, trawlers, canners, ship captains, deckhands, fishermen; nevertheless, because she lived in the wealthier part of town, Waverly spent most of her childhood doing nothing but learning how to be able to hold a trident, as she wasn't strong enough to actually wield one of the lethal weapons, but knew how to manipulate ropes into fancier notes for nets, and the shows that her father put on. She enjoyed the art of people-watching; from the corner of one hazel, under the sunlight - gold, eye she could see the flustered young woman was covering a mop of frizzy, yet curly hair underneath a grimy grey beret which looked like it had fallen into the sea —over and over again, and the woman hadn't bothered to dry it. She was motioning frantically to the girl next to her, obviously much younger but dressed much better with professional looking attire; perhaps, it was a business deal.

"Hey, kiddo!" her father yells, from the ship; he had a slight accent from the South; when Waverly was a child, her father had gone traveling with the rest of his crew. "You're gonna help your old man today?" A smile leaps across Waverly's lips, turning into a grimace when she sees the Forum in the distance, a reminder of everything that was going to happen that day, though she wouldn't be reaped —her father had paid extra, almost like a bribery to the Capitol to take away her slips.

Music pounded in her ears as she jumps down into the sea, her clothes becoming drenched into the cold water, but for a moment, Waverly feels free and though her heart was pounding louder than her ears, it was freedom. She just wants to let everything out; Waverly rips off the earrings that her mother had insisted on her wearing daily —they were the real gold ones that her mother had bought from the Capitol, on a family trip last year when Waverly had won the scholarship by getting the top score on a standardized test; the earrings came along with a moonstone necklace, that was supposed to protect her from harm. Waverly wore it everywhere.

Waverly pulls out the fake white carnation flower that decorated her signature style, a fishtail braid, something that the District's very own stylists had come up with, modeling the traits of their own district and combining the fashion sense of Panem's center. "Waverly de Lune —get out of that water. Now!" _Please, please, seriously let this be a joke. _"What are you doing in there; you don't understand, anything, do you child?" It was her mother, with the same obnoxious loud voice like usual.

"Coming, Mom." Waverly climbs out of the water, holding onto the poles and waving a goodbye to her father, who didn't look the slightest bit as if he didn't expect this; it was bound to happen at one point or another. Waverly was already sixteen years old, a proper young District 4 lady, and she had to start acting like that —sooner rather than later, according to her _horribly eccentric mother. _"Can't I just enjoy myself, for one day?" she emphasizes, drying herself off with a towel.

Sapphire de Lune, her mother, sighs. "No, honey, you can't enjoy your life anymore. I know that you want to have fun, but those are for children. Do you see any sixteen year old or any young lady, here?" Waverly doesn't even have to look around; no girl her age in their right mind would spend the day by the sea; she isn't the typical District Four girl however, and nobody, especially her mother, was satisfied with that. They just want her to be the stereotype, the perfect daughter that Waverly knew she could never satisfy. Sure, her father and mother had worked hard so that she could get here, but they didn't get to choose what life she led.

Did they? According to the Capitol, they probably had _every _right to choose their daughter's lifestyle —from what she consumed in the morning, a breakfast usually consisted of a spinach, cucumber, and carrot juice, to what color her nails were painted, a light hazel that went well with her skin tone. Her mother dragged her along to the costume shop, near the middle of town.

Sapphire's Savvy Looks was one of the things that _Capitol Weekly _had declared _hawt _rather than Grow Books' _nawt._

Waverly's life feels like something out of a movie, the kind that didn't ever have a happy ending and where the heroine was suffocated to death, or just lived the rest of her life obeying the rules, always knowing that this wasn't the type of life that she was born to lead. "I don't understand what you're trying to do, Mom—"

"You're going to be _beautiful!_" her mother announces, waving her hands excitedly as she ushers all of the customers out of the store, interrupting her daughter's thoughts. Within hours, she had been converted into something that she expected a clown would look like —none of _her _friends had eccentric mothers who would act like this, dressing their daughters in clownish makeup that basically concealed all of the good features they had, dressing them literally in a Cinderella costume.

Making her way to the Forum five minutes later, Waverly feels childish waving the magic wind for good luck, her mother having left earlier to get good box seats, as if the Reapings were the best reality show to watch. She had watched reality shows at a younger age, and had been disgusted at how people found it amusing that people were killed —even she had been interesting watching it, just for a while, until people started being killed (faux, of course), and the gore was described at length, as if everybody in the world should enjoy things like that. The only part of the costume that Waverly enjoyed was the silver chain, a good luck charm.

"Welcome, welcome," the younger lady huffs, striding across the stage in a low-cut dress, "—to the 100th Annual Hunger Games!" Loud applause comes from the crowd, but Waverly merely rolls her eyes; a chill goes down her spine when she feels that everybody's eyes are on her, but they aren't. "Your female tribute is,' she takes a long breath, onyx fingernails plastered to sticking slips, but she finally pulled out one. "Waverly de Lune!"

Waverly makes her way to the stage, shoved by the Peacemakers and ushered by the approving glances of her parents, though her father looked a little disappointed that his bribery hadn't managed to work. She knew that this would be happening at one point or another —unlike the people of District 1 and District 2 she wasn't overjoyed at the result of the Reaping, but she wasn't horrified either. Maybe she could win and then her mother would stop complaining about what a disappointment she was —yes, that sounded like _such _a good plan. It wasn't like she wasn't professionally trained, or anything like that; note the sarcasm.

"And, your _fellow male tribute is," - _someone in the crowd lets out a scream - "Niall Blake!" Somebody in the audience lets out several screams of excitement, and there was a lot more applause for Niall than there had been for Waverly. She had never seen or heard of the boy before, but looking at his chiseled seven foot frame, Waverly realized that coming back, _not _in a casket might not be so easy —it wasn't going to stop her from trying, however.

**DISTRICT FIVE**

They had called her out of the hospital for _this. _The Silvius Preserve wasn't exactly a hospital —yet, Bena Larykn liked to imagine so. Flashbacks jolted her mind every now and then, and emotional breakdowns and flipping tables full of drinks and food was a normal routine in her life; it just brought her more attention, the reason why she had gone to the Preserve in the first place. It wasn't her choice, but her parents; on the day of Halloween, this holiday that the Capitol allowed only some of the select Districts to participate in, she had been asked to take care of her younger brother Selenium. To this date, Bena wasn't sure what exactly had happened.

All she knew that one moment her brother was taunting her about this boy that she liked, and the next moment, he was lying on the floor, cold and lifeless with something horrible foaming out of his mouth. Bena had tried to run, but there was nowhere to hide; her parents had come home an hour later, and had found Selenium's body in the closet, one of the places where she had tried to hide his body, but it was of no avail. She eventually blurted out the truth, and within a few days, Bena's parents had found a place that could keep her in a straitjacket for life without attracting too much attention to harming the family name.

After all, that's all that mother and father cared about, preserving the family name, and pretending, pretending that everything was still perfect. Sometimes, they would invite her home for parties, saying the only reason why she went to the Preserve was for anorexia —the only _suitable _reason was an eating disorder, apparently, and she was lean enough to pass off like that. "You're going to be taken to the crowd, and you will be under handcuffs at all times."

Bena had been guarded by the same people since she had been admitted to the Preserve, six years previous to the current date; she had nearly been ten then, and she was sixteen now, but for her, it was almost as if nothing had changed. She was still that little girl with anger problems that she was six years ago. Somehow, the Preserve was supposed to help her _solve her problems _in a _collaborative environment _but the closest people that Bena had tried to make friends with were actually trying to use her as an alibi so that they could have an escape route mapped out —they were supposed to take her with them, but she was just dead weight.

"Okay," she replies, numbly. After all, Bena had put up the excuse of being in a coma for twenty four days after she had been admitted to the Preserve and whenever anybody came to visit her, she went into hysterics; her visiting privileges had been taken away, and then she was alone, just the way that she liked it.

But, now, they were taking her out again. District Five was in outrage about it, but there were at least thirty other people within the ages of twelve and eighteen from the Preserve who had to be taken out, yearly, because of the Reapings. That much, Bena knew; it was Capitol-mandated, and nobody argued with the Capitol, whether they were the strongest Victors in the world or weak children who just wanted to have fun and play, letting the day spin away with new presents. The light blinded her delicate eyes and Bena requested for the sunglasses to place on top of her eyes, with the shades —in a way, the sunglasses allowed her to be shielded from the public, who would like nothing better than to hang her from a pole and throw tomatoes and other forms of rotten fruit with her, like a family bonding day.

In fact, one of the family's, the Ashtons, Bena remembers, had tried doing so but had been stopped by the police force. The Reapings would be taking place in a few minutes, and for a moment, Bena wishes with all her heart that she would be admitted into the Games —she would be perfect for the type of person that everybody would think was innocent, and then days later, they would realize they had been hunting all the wrong people; she was insane, and insanity was ruthless.

Ruthless was what Victors were described as, according to some of the Capitol books Bena had been allowed to read over the years. Her brown curly hair was kept under a grimy blue beret for the day, her bright blue eyes shining but glazed over, a pretense, of course. She couldn't wait to be in the Games.

The pleasure of throwing axes at all of their slimy little heads and carving her beautiful name into their skulls; now, that was the dream that Bena had been having ever since she had killed her brother. And, oh, she would be honored for being the Victor, honored very greatly and then everybody would like her and she wouldn't be shunned at the Preserve anymore —and you have to feel sorry for her, somehow, if you have heart, because all Bena ever wanted was to be loved.

They announce the male tribute first that time, for some reason, almost as if they're defying the Capitol, and then they call her name. Bena smiles widely as she walks up to the stage, not hearing the complaints from the people in the crowd, saying that mad children and nutjobs shouldn't be allowed to go in the Games, but then she takes the microphone from that Capitol nutjob, the real maniac. "Listen, bitches. You sent me to the Preserve, so I'm going to kill your children. Toodles!"

The Capitol woman doesn't even bother to let her shake hands with the male tribute, Volkner Jax, a smallish boy who looked anything but manipulative, and she was restrained once more; still, Bena had gotten her point —and _charismatic smiles_— across, and that was all that mattered, for now.

**DISTRICT SIX**

Her life has gone by in a blur, that is the life of Bianca Mave. She sits upon a pedestal on the stage, reciting a poem to the crowd below, and then the world switches and she's hearing voices at night and throwing up everywhere in between, because the voices will never end; nevertheless, Bianca was aware that she was late to the reaping. Of course, there was a chance that being late to the Reaping could affect her family's standing because the Peacemakers, would, for sure, arrest her for this minor offense, but her parents would weasel their way out of the situation. Bianca squeezes her muscular frame through the crowd, and makes it to the front of the stage before the female name is called.

Earlier that day, her mother had presented her with a bowl of cantaloupe, a delicacy that wasn't usually served for family members; though the family was rich, they didn't treat their children so. The sweetness still stuck into her mouth, and into the mechanical wiring of her teeth, bolts and screws and wires all meshed together to resemble the Capitol's form of what they called _braces _but her family couldn't exactly do what the Capitol could do.

It made sense, however. Everybody in Panem, all the citizens of the districts, even the Career ones, relied upon the Capitol —that's what made the country strong. At least that's what Bianca had been taught from a young age —that perfection, and following the rules was _everything._

She cold see her parents from the top; they were dressed casually, like all of the other parents, but her older looking mother looked more out of place with the faint traces of mustard on one hand, from the subway shop she and her husband operated at the outskirts of town. Though they were one of the wealthier people in the District, or at least, for now they would be, the Maves didn't dress like they were able to feed themselves well enough; in fact, the only fact that showed their status were the diamond rings that all of the females of the family wore on their left hand; Bianca had lost hers a few hours ago, and felt a little saddened by the fact, but it was just a trifle. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Bianca Mave!"

Never mind, she thought to herself. Nevertheless, Bianca couldn't help but feel as though this had been her fault, in some small way. Maybe if she hadn't been late then she wouldn't have been reaped —it was just like, though; nothing could change what had happened. She faked a smile; because she might as well put on a good show for the crowd while she died, shook hands with Adam Song and resisted the urge to start bawling. That wouldn't be right, though.

If she was going to die, it might as well be _perfect._

::

**Sorry for not updating quickly, but a lot was going on; I made a few videos (Dance Academy, Tara/Christian), and updated a few other stories that I didn't update in a while, and then I just forgot about this. I'm really sorry about that; I promise to be a better update, now, :) Approximately 1/2 of the reapings are done! Which district was your favorite this time around? Which tribute? Sorry that I only focused from the girls' point of view's, but next time it will be the boy's; I'll do individual ones next time, instead of combined districts. Also, sorry if your tributes aren't how you expected them to be. This chapter is around 7,000 words and beta-read by the ah-mazing sparkle filled hearts —go check out her stories, too!**

**Remember, submitters, each (signed & anonymous —if you wish to be a sponsor, you can be anonymous) review counts as a point! I recommend stacking up your points early, because you'll need them routinely during the games. Also, each follow counts as a point.**

**clara**

**(are you excited about districts 7-13? leave me a review! they motivate me :)**


	4. reapings (7-13)

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything; the tributes belong to those who have submitted them.**

**For an extra point, please check out my joint account with Catie (theflowercrowns) and submit a tribute for our SYOT, if possible, :)**

**TALLY: 7,645 words**

**4**

**REAPINGS**

**(DISTRICTS 7-13)**

**::**

**DISTRICT SEVEN**

Sometimes there are flashes — _bright_ ones, and Phoebe screams out loud; within minutes, she's hooked up to wires and electronic devices, her erratic heartbeat flailing above on the screen as her arms and legs flop, body curling up in the fetal position. There have been several incidents she had been admitted into the Preserve, flipping tables over in an attempt to injure those individuals who seemed as though they were threatening her. This room was different, though.

It was one of the bunk rooms, reserved only for the worst of cases, like her; oh, wasn't that so magnificent?

Phoebe blinks her eyes again and the beaming smile turns into a grim purse of blackened lips; the walls are whitewashed and the floor is painted over several times, clocks going _tick tock _until the alarms would buzz off, alerting the morning staff, which were half empty due to the events that would be happening this day in the Reapings, of the movements of their _favorite patient. _Looking around the room, Phoebe stretches her arm above her head and decides to have a little adventure.

"What do you think, Ana? Isabelle?" She looks around at her friends, who only nod in reverence; she loops arms with them and calmly picks the lock with a tweezer that one of the nurses had supplied her during the last visit, when she wasn't doing so badly as she was now. The three of them, curly-haired Ana who always has the bad habit of lying to the nurses about not oiling her hair; Isabelle has problems with her eating disorder; nevertheless, Phoebe is the leader of the group.

They walk quickly, avoiding the strange gazes of the other patients upon them; none of the nurses notice them as they duck underneath passing trays, almost as if a cloak of invisibility is draped across their small shoulders. For a moment, with the ducking and the running, it's almost if they're playing a game, and they're five year olds again, all innocent and playful with nothing but a clear sky in their free hearts. Then again, there was not much time for fun and play even when they were children; District Seven wasn't one of the richer districts in Panem.

There are no windows in the Preserve but for a millisecond, Phoebe imagines what the outside would look like; the perfectly groomed lawn of the Town Hall, the city lush with trees and children learning to climb before taking their first footsteps. Lumber and paper buildings and facilities are near the middle of town, individuals commuting from their rural estates far off to some urban apartments to work, for the meager minimum wage supplied by the ever so generous Capitol; Isabelle pinches Phoebe, and she snaps out of the daydream, and focuses on the mission.

She laughs a little to herself, traveling through the rooms; they hold smug looking police officers, grimy grey berets that fit snugly onto small hands, tendrils of hair falling freely; one woman sits, looking outward with her orange jumper suit looking as though she wishes this was all a dream. Suddenly, her friends —they're only _illusions, darling_— disappear, and she's left in an empty room.

The paint is still drying, and it's the color of blood; Phoebe touches the freshly drying paint and lets out an ear splitting sound. There's blood on her hands, there's blood all over her body; she runs towards the nearest fountain (water, of course) and starts to fall into the water, crying and screaming because it's permanent.

_I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I didn't do anything! _She chants, curled up into a tight ball while the taste of blood and salt stains cover her crimson tainted lips, this time the damage not from smeared lipstick; the nurses find her soon enough. The one with the bad hair tells her that it's going to be all right, that everything's going to be all right and then Phoebe recognizes the nurse's face.

Phoebe's dark blue eyes grew even darker with hate —this is the face of her mother; this is the nurse, her mother.

She immediately stands up and brushes herself off but only more blood grows around her mouth; she keeps spilling blood from an open mouth, drooling down onto her silvery blonde hair which is now forever tainted. "You, you, y-you," Phoebe stutters, backing up until she reaches the wall. "You killed my father. You killed my aunt, my uncle, my brother, you killed everybody. You sent me here."

The nurse throws a spear towards her head, and Phoebe ducks, her quick reflexes coming in handy for once. She tries running through the hallways and is immediately surrounded by the other nurses who attempt at injecting something in her fiery veins, who resist the sleeping drug, forcing her to stay conscious. Adrenaline rushes through Phoebe as she reaches for the spear, and throws it firmly towards the neck of her mother, the nurse, and the woman falls down.

Suddenly, the flashes start and the images begin and Phoebe opens her eyes in horror, and starts running.

She had killed someone. She had killed an innocent nurse, a nurse who didn't even resemble her mother in the slightest —those were just the visions, what she was thinking; she couldn't even control her own thoughts and her actions; she deserved to die. In the back of her mind, Phoebe knows what she must do; she runs back into the hospital room and grabs the paintings and runs back into the wild free air; quickly showing the bloodied spear to the guard, who immediately lets her out.

Though the Peacekeepers are strong, they probably do not want anything to die with an insane twelve year old girl from an outlying district; save those exceptions to be killed in _accidents. _Phoebe runs through the town streets; though she had previously memorized the paths and streets, and even lived here for the first five years, District Seven is still a mystery to her; eventually, she comes across the Town Square, where all of the children from ages twelve to eighteen are assembled, nervously fidgeting with their Sunday clothing as if they are not meant to be wearing anything but ragtag clothing and secondhand, hand me down pieces.

Phoebe takes a breath as she enters the twelve year old section; immediately, all of the other girls try inching away slowly from the girl; Phoebe remembers the weapon in her head and drops the bloodied spear. The weapon clangs loudly, and the man from the Capitol on the stage frowns, then covers his emotions up. "I volunteer," she says, calmly, walking up onto the stage, and pushing the eighteen year old girl who was already standing there, away. Nobody was going to control her death except for her.

She only realizes that she's been a colossal mistake when Phoebe glances at the male tribute for District Seven, and wishes that she had stayed in the Preserve in the first place. Those emerald green eyes and auburn messy hair; muscled arms and bigger stature than most —they belong to Alder Springer, the boy whose younger sister she killed. If he wasn't going to kill her, Phoebe wasn't sure who would have so much hate and motive to do so.

\

**DISTRICT EIGHT**

Velveeta fidgeted with the fraying edges of her black dress for the hundredth time that day, nervously biting one of her brittle fingernails with sharp teeth while the other hand of onyx fingernails was plastered to the glossy bracelet which shined brightly underneath the midday sun. Though it was already half past one o' clock in the afternoon, the woman that the Capitol usually sent out for the Reapings hadn't arrived yet; that was reason enough to worry.

Things in the Capitol were always precise and efficient, one of the many reasons why Panem was still able to run ever so smoothly. There wasn't much chatter around, mostly nervous fidgeting with the other girls in her age group, rounded up and kept within a fence as though they were pigs to be herded, carried off to the slaughterhouse, which in fact, wasn't too far from what was going to literally happen to the _ohsolucky _two tributes.

She's thought about the idea of running away from District 8 but it just seems preposterous, thinking about now and examining the Peacekeepers and the way that they show off the steel and metal weapons, their weapons blaring a signal for alarm and those who seem to be the most afraid are hiding it the best; the crowd is restless, and a tall man, the Mayor of the town announces, "There's been a delay, but we should be resuming the normal activities soon enough."

The microphone squeaks loudly, and most of the younger children cover their ears while their parents uncover them, telling them that it's a sign of being rude; Velveeta knows that because when she was younger, her mother did the same for her. Five years ago, a girl was taken by the Peacekeepers for improper act of conduct, and nobody had seen her since; there was a victor from District 8 about a year ago, and he says that he remembered seeing her as an Avox. It was as simple as that — you disobeyed the Capitol, and the President's rules in the slightest — and you would pay for the punishment, _with your tongue._

There are a group of girls next to Velveeta, and she just happens to overhear their conversation — apparently, a group of teenage boys from District 7, one of the neighboring districts had decided to play a prank on the Capitol, and remove some of the necessary and essentially engine parts from the train, but he had been caught and was currently being punished; there was a loud bang in the distance, and it was in plain sight for everybody to see a body bag being carried into the center of the stage. There, it was left, and an announcement was made by the professional looking woman who was hiding perhaps her disgust for the body; though the rest of District 8 had to wonder who it was;

"Just a reminder," she says, in a high pitched voice which really annoys Velveeta because couldn't anybody understand that there was a person in a body bag, or at least something person shaped in a body bag, "—if any pranks are being pulled against the Capitol, those caught will be punished without a trial. The Reapings will begin shortly." And, the woman says the words casually, without a care in the world because the people of the Capitol do not have to worry.

Their children are not sent off to war; Velveeta remembers her grandmother telling her tales. She remembers a time where everything was well, according to one of her grandmother's tales, but her grandmother has died and has taken the joy of a five year old listening to fairy tales with their ever so lovely, but never realistic, happy endings. Velveeta still remembers her grandmother, a woman who would wear the most ridiculous clothing choices and had the boniest collarbones in the town, though she ate more than Velveeta's whole family combined.

Her grandmother had died of excessive bleeding, some sort of accident and of course the family didn't have enough money to pay for a treatment in the Capitol, nor did the Capitol wish to take in a citizen who wasn't working or properly paying their taxes so she died. Velveeta still remembers when she had driven off a bridge, and into a lake, startling the wildlife of the woods of her district when she had figured out the news — the feeling of drowning had been numb, and almost as if Velveeta didn't feel any emotions; being indifferent was much easier than becoming attached.

It was at that point when she had started to train herself in the arts of shooting with a bow and arrow, learning how to hunt, but nothing had been successful; however, she was more prepared than most of the children here if she was chosen. Velveeta just hoped that she wouldn't be reaped this year. She was only sixteen, and had two more years to go before finally being able to be down with the Reapings, but then if she had children (when she had children), the worries would began once more. It was an endless cycle of cruel and unusual punishments, and it would last for all of eternity before beginning once more.

The sound of the bell came ringing, and the woman spoke in a loud and confident voice — the kind of confidence that would only coming from an upbringing in the Capitol, or somewhere more affluent, "Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen, to the District 8 Reapings for the 100th Annual Hunger Games! Today, like always, we'll start with the ladies," spoke coral red lips, puffed out as if they were swelling though in the Capitol, this is what they called something known as chic. Velveeta couldn't care less about it, and her breath held for a few moments, as those same annoying coral fingernails dove into the bowl of paper slips, fuller than usual. There had been a drought this year, and most of the children, even those who were only twelve, were taking loads of tessarae for their families, in order to survive for the next winter which promised to be much harsher than this year's, "Velveeta Lisle!"

The words were spoken loudly and clearly, and the rest of the girls let out a sigh of relief, some of the eighteen year olds smiling broadly as though they didn't have a care in the world, much like the woman standing at the front of the stage.

Velveeta wished that she could just hide herself, but everything went by in a blur; the Peacekeepers roughly pushed her up onto the stage and for a moment, Velveeta felt as though she couldn't say a single world. The only benefit of this was that she didn't have to say anything to anyone, at least not until the train ride was over; she just closed her eyes, and put on the most indifferent expression that she could muster at the time. Like always, the woman kept calm, sending a winning smile over to the males and swirled her fingers around in their bowl, before picking one slip that stuck slightly to the side; Velveeta held her breath as well, hoping that her fellow tribute wasn't one of the larger males in their district, or the oldest.

Though she knew that she had barely any chance of winning, it would be nice to be killed by somebody that she didn't know. "_And_ your male tribute is Dimity Lisle!" This time, it's not as though nobody knows who Dimity is and a few wails are heard from the females in the crowd as the eighteen year old pen is immediately cleared, some of the teenagers returning to their parents as though this is not an action that they could be punished for; he's easy on the eyes, Velveeta knows that much, but she is also aware of the fact that his reputation around town isn't exactly the cleanest.

He makes his way to the stage, tears spilling from his eyes but pulling through to smile and the crowd of District 8 is already won over by his charisma and Velveeta tries to sneak another glance at the crowd in front of her as the woman pulls both of them away, into the Town Hall, because she wants to remember the people of her district when she dies — that's all that Velveeta wants.

In a flash, it's almost as if her life comes rushing to the surface and she can't contain a sob as she recognizes that this is the last time where she'l be alive; though Velveeta knew at one point or another, she had taken it for granted that she would live a longer life than sixteen years, perhaps have a family and raise a few children; it wouldn't be long or joyous, but it was something worth looking forward too — this was what the Capitol did, she realized. They rounded up children, and they crushed their dreams. So, Velveeta dried her eyes. She wasn't going to give the Capitol any more satisfaction than what they had already gotten.

\

**DISTRICT NINE**

Isis is standing in an abandoned parking lot when the bell rings — she recognizes that it's the bell for the Reapings; after all, she is sixteen and has heard it for the past years, the earsplitting sound really never getting old — and makes her way to the back of the shop, where the door was left unlocked. Peacekeepers patrol the area, but the majority of them were staying near the Town's Forum, in case of an outbreak or a riot, something that rarely happened in an outlying district with no weapons, such as hers.

This was a good time as ever to raid another shop. Isis's family could somehow afford to make their way through life in an honest manner, but she didn't really see what was wrong with taking some extra items from a store that wouldn't even notice the losses the next day; she should have been at the Reapings, with all of the other children between ages twelve and eighteen but there was no point in even going. Though Isis came from a lower class family, she wasn't forced to take any tessarae as her parents refused to let her put herself in danger yet.

Her pale light blond hair snapped forward, swishing from side to side as she made her way through the store, immediately dismantling the security cameras on the upper left side, which kept watch of the store all day, all night. The knapsack that was resting lightly on one of her shoulders was already filled with small trinkets from another shop, while an empty backpack was ready to accept the cash and other valuable items from the antique store; she had met the woman who owned the shop, and judging by the expensive looking jewelry that the women had donned daily, she could afford to lose a few of the diamond earrings and gold crowns.

Isis was aware that what she was doing was technically _wrong _but it wasn't as though she did this daily; most of the times, her younger sister Ami, who was only eight years old and wouldn't have to worry about the Reapings, at least for a while, shoplifted food items or some scraps from the garbage cans whenever some of the guards started patrolling the central Farmers' Markets, which happened once a weeks, sometimes twice if there was a good harvest. District 8 specialized in grain; though most of the city was in the rural regions, her parents managed to find a way for their children to live in the urban, factory area of the town.

Nevertheless, though her parents were doing everything for her, they weren't exactly proud of their daughter's shoplifting — though it _did bring happy smiles and full stomachs, _a gift that they could not deny. Sometimes, Isis wondered what would have happened if she had lived in another district, perhaps in the Capitol, though she could not imagine herself with a full stomach and pigtails in hair, a spoiled brat life as opposed to being on the run for the majority of her days.

_District 9 is Panem's bread bowl, giving us the fertile harvest we need to keep rising as a nation. Its amber waves of grain are an inspiration to us all, _Isis recites underneath her breath, reading the plaque on the wall, and grabbing the five gold stars which hung proudly, below rows of gleaming medals, ribbon and lace.

She snatched them fiercely; it wasn't as though anybody needed to know that this antique place, _Saphira's Trinkets an' Toys _was the most affluent shop in town — which created all the better challenge for stealing from it. The bell clangs again, but it's softer this time as if they're only directing their attention towards those few individuals, including Isis, who haven't shown up at the Forum for some odd reason or another; most of those individuals have come down with fatal illness, contagious and all, but are dragged to the Forum by their reluctant parents, and an epidemic wipes out one third of District Nine's population by the end's month.

Isis shivers, something running down her slender spine; she wishes that Zero, one of her closer friends, could have shown up at this shoplifting scene with her — it would have made _everything a lot simpler. _In the 75th Hunger Games, District 9 was one of the two districts to have both tributes killed on the first day; The District 9 male is said to be the first tribute that died in the 74th Hunger Games. Random facts run through her mind, as the odds were never really in their favors.

There's a sudden ring of the bell near the front of the shop, and Isis can see the Peacekeepers coming in, looking polished in their brand new uniforms, their smug grins the ultimate mark of a Capitol citizen. "You have been reaped with Leo Cypress. You have been reaped. You have been reaped. Come forward, Isis. We're not going to hurt you."

There's a slim boy there too, with short messy hair, around seven feet tall, which was still a rarity; though, next to the Peacekeepers, he looked as though he was harmless, an easy target. All she can think about is running backwards, until she realizes that the shop has been surrounded on all sides, Peacekeepers coming in through the windows, through the side doors, from the vents and the secret passageways which contain the concealed chambers of smuggled items such as the wine that Isis had stolen a few weeks back to throw a celebration for a few friends in the more rural areas, where they wouldn't be caught.

She thinks for a moment if she could simply reach into her backpack, and find all of the secret locations, perhaps anywhere to hide but it's already too late because the Peacekeepers have a tight grip on her, and are holding out her arm, extending it far enough to yank it right out of its socket.

The last thing that Isis remembers is the world going black.

\

**DISTRICT TEN**

Holly was watching the television, playing old reruns off the games when her mother came crashing through the doors, her breath heavy, yelling loudly to Holly that her father had left yet again, without a single trace to explain where he had gone — the fifteen year old girl only sighs, and lets herself out the back door. Things like this had been happening more and more often for the past few days, and the only way to find a way to deal with this situation was for Holly to let herself out of the house, and be free into the nature; she smiles at the distant sounds heard, as they are the trademark of District Ten. The gentle lowing of cattle is the first thing a visitor to District 10 hears. This region raises strong, healthy livestock, which becomes the meat that helps us raise strong, healthy children of Panem.

Her hourglass figure rests for support upon the patio of the outside, and can hear the faint murmur of the television seeping through the thin doors that made a weak frame for the one apartment in a five story townhouse, the best that a family of a single mother and her two children could afford. _Now, a recap of District 10's tributes, _the familiar voice of Caesar Flickerman announces, perhaps that same smug grin on his face, looking lively with a winning smile permanently etched onto his face. _The__ boy from 10 was first seen in the Tribute Parade with his district partner, the girl from 10, wearing golden cowboy hats, shirts, and pants, representing the people from his district who herd livestock. Later, when the chariots are parked, he and his partner are seen in the background, behind Katniss and Peeta's chariot, talking to each other._

She was almost disgusted — scratch that; _seriously disgusted _at the way that the people from the Capitol were acting. These were actual people, with lives and families at homes that nobody seemed to care about and they weren't just the unnamed people who had died in the Bloodbath, or on the first day, or in the morning of the eighth day due to a Gammemaker automated fire. It was horrible, and sometimes Holly wished that she could do something about it.

Nevertheless, Holly took a deep breath and let her steel grey eyes gaze inside of the house, light brown plaited and long blocking her vision along with the lock that was firmly bolted, perhaps by her mother; there were screams and cries and Holly decided that it would be best to leave the house for the rest of the day. She placed her hands in the pockets of her faded jeans, a hand me down from the secondhand shop around the corner, and the equivalent of three days and fourteen hours of work, minimum wage for females. Her mother sometimes worked, whenever she felt in the mood not to be depressed and drown her sorrows in wine.

There are notices up all around town, and Holly suddenly remembers why the places had been so empty, and why her mother had been drinking more than usual because there was no need for sorrows when her father had left the family twelve years ago, but this was also another time when parents felt their lives falling to pieces, and though there were celebrations yearly for those families who made it past the Reapings without losing a single child, two doors would be closed, and wreaking sobs would be drowned out by the loud music and celebratory noise. By the time that she reaches the Town Hall, running and feeling out of place with the ragged shorts which have holes near the bottom and the old shirt that reaches past her knees and engulfs her smaller figure, there are people staring at her.

She's not even sure why — in fact, most of the children _aren't here _and there are other ones still arriving from the other end of the hall. There are no parents that she recognizes, and all of the children have vague, dazed expressions on their faces almost as if they do not have a care in the world though the Reaping are about to begin in a few minutes and even the twelve year olds look relaxed, just the slightest bit tensed and worried when they all turn, facing Holly and then she realizes what had happened.

There's this patronizing sound of the _tick tock tick tock, tick tock, goes the clock _and it takes all of the control that Holly has to not go over there and rip off the clock where it's cemented on the wall, but it wouldn't look good to do that and she tries to ignore the stares and the evidence.

The screen near the front of the Forum was already past the two minute mark, and the imperial march, the sound of the clock going tick-tock, tick-tock made her realize what had happened, and that she had missed the Reapings — the one where she had been Reaped. By the time she makes her way to the stage, the name _Preston Barnhills _is announced and she bites her lip, already nervous enough because this just seems like a dream, but it's not.

Preston Barnhills; the name is reluctant to come out of her own lips, and Holly remembers; childhood memories come rushing back to the surface, and she remembers that the two of them used to play war — _it was only a game back then, darlings _— but now it would be for real. He makes his way to the stage and lets out a light whistle, and Holly tries to tell him to be quiet because nobody cares about how he can communicate with animals, nobody really does care. Preston does have a chance, however, of winning; the statistics start playing out in her head and Holly can't help but remember that his older brother, Lorenzo, was one of the sole victors in a Game, from District 10. It's not a game, anymore, though.

\

**DISTRICT ELEVEN**

Oriole was standing in the children's playground when trouble arose again — to be fair, she was not one of the children of District Eleven who spent their days searching for trouble — though most did not waste time on such trivial activities, instead spending their hours harvesting crops alongside their elder parents, siblings, and neighbors, for the minimum wage pay that was given to those under eighteen years of age. Nevertheless, Oriole was not accepted for the harvesting jobs, and there were barely other here.

Sometimes, she spent the remainder of her days playing in the orchards, running down the paths of primroses and stopping to smell the roses no matter how many bee stings eventually ended up on her skin. "Hello," she whispered, more nervous than usual; when wasn't she? "Can I play _with you_?" She spoke louder, eventually loud enough for the children to here.

They turned their heads slowly, almost as if they were in a daze and upon gazing on Oriole, they immediately started squawking, running away as fast as their legs could carry them; if Oriole was younger and naïve to the ways of the world, she might have run after them but after all these years she knew that would be of no avail. Everybody in town avoided her because of her appearance, and she just wondered what she had done wrong in a past life to deserve a fate, to be tormented and taunted, avoided and a recluse like this.

_Oriole Jay, what a horrible name, _she mused to herself, walking awkwardly through the sand, sputtering heavily when a little entered her mouth, water from a bottle hastily poured dripping down her black hair which stood out of place. Instead of being tucked behind ears, or cropped shortly like how the other children had their hair, Oriole had made the bad habit of growing hers out which she was already starting to regret in the midday sun which was blazing; two wildfires had been controlled early of that humid week.

Her bright orange-gold eyes were half glazed over as she remembered why she was here; the only advantage to the condition in which Oriole was in was the fact that she could not be Reaped — perhaps why the majority of District 11, children and parents included despised her. To be fair, Oriole despised herself as well; who wouldn't, if your parents were random test tubes, your very creation the only result of a failed experiment all the way from the Capitol, sent to where the rest of the failures reside, wallowing in self-pity. She looks down for a moment, examining what dangled off the chains which were barely staying on her bony wrist; there was a tiny golden charm, on a gold chain, with a little carved oriole bird that the old lady gave her.

She was created it a lab at the Capitol, supposedly a cross between a bird and a human. The experiment left Oriole slightly human, but with black wings, speckled pure white and dotted orange, retractable for the most part, lengthy however; her claw like nails scratch at a wispy scalp. The scientist had taken pity on her, changed her genes to make her more human, and set her free. She then flew as far as she could, landing in District Eleven. An old woman took care of her until age 10, when she had to take care of herself. She managed to find enough scraps to live until age 12, when she took out tesserae. The rest, as they say, is history.

Oriole walks slowly out of the playground, dusting the sand and dirt off of her skimpy clothing and walks to the edge of town, where the rest of the inhabitants have long since cleared the area, leaving it for the society of lepers and other disgraces. She pondered upon flying, being able to stretch her wings far and feel the wind rushing onto her face — and decided, perhaps it was worth to do so. Upon landing, Oriole noticed the existence of a taller more human like creature than she was, who looked out of place and recognized the familiar lopsided smile, waving a hand before awkwardly crashing to the ground, one of her wings snapping back into place after a sickening crash and thud.

Nero Radiant was one of the few people who was aware of Oriole's existence besides the children of which she had for so long tried to grab the attention and require the acceptance from them; he was dressed in a black shirt and dress pants, Sunday wear no doubt; worn shoes with a hole in the bottom of the left one clashed with the polished look of the uniform. "Where's Will and Alyss?" She asked, a little louder than her usual voice. Something was going wrong; as he slowly turned around, Oriole gasped loudly, falling back onto the floor and trying to flap her wings in a rapid motion but nothing seemed to work and she was cornered within minutes.

"What did I do wrong?" The Peacekeepers only looked down, with their steely eyes and Oriole was immediately reminded of the vultures she had sometimes circled over, which perched upon trees in the harvesting fields, waiting for just somebody to die of heat exhaustion so that they could prey upon their bodies; blood-caked fingernails reach forward as Oriole tries to claw the guards away though they are much stronger than the thirteen year old mutation, merely an experiment gone wrong.

They speak slowly, in a monotone voice, "You will be taken to the Capitol. Both of you will be taken to the Capitol." Oriole smiled broadly; she had been waiting for this moment for years, to finally be able to return home where she would be accepted. She let her body go limp, and fell into their steel arms.

\

**DISTRICT TWELVE**

Constant swishes of raven black hair, wavy curls floating in and out of the house make their mark and swoop in to an unsuspecting family, returning to the cold bed as Asphodel hopes that her mother will never figure out that she had left in the first place — her mother is fast asleep, however. For a moment, Asphodel looks out of the windows again and wishes that she could return to the fields again, to the forest green woods of District Twelve, inhale the pine fresh scent but it is not possible. She stood up suddenly, remembering the occasion of the day and went over to her mother, whose arm was draped around Asher, her three year old younger brother and smiled at the dazed expressions on their faces, happy smiles as though they were dreaming of an utopia, a place that didn't exist in a world full of crime and crushed dreams.

"Time to wake up, sleepyhead," she murmured in a loving manner, ruffling the bright red hair of Asher, and patting gently on her mother's forehead before remembering; in a rush, she ran to the lower level and picked up the medicine that the neighbors had offered to give in time of need, pressing the cold compress gently not realizing that the water had heated over the period of the night. The whines of Asher started up again, and Asphodel sighed; there was never a time of peace in this house.

There had been, not too long before, but that was a time in which she was a young child and barely remembered those dancing days, those cinematic daydreams which came soon enough, crashing to an end, untimely deaths and accidents. Her father, tall figure with a black coat that was barely seen in photographs, already ripped out, all memories stuck to an ebony casket, had died when she was four years old, and though Asphodel does not recall him much, there is still a father shaped hole in her heart. She sighed, looking at her mother once more, remembering when this sickness had started; Asphodel herself, was the one to deliver her brother, seeing as the healer was working on a miner who had gotten a prick though his hand. Soon after that, her mother got sick and she had been the one to raise Asher, the little troublemaker.

Her mother is still having a dazed expression, and Asphodel sighs, walking over to the bed and picking up Asher, smiling as she places him on her hip, walking down the narrow staircase in order to prepare the typical breakfast — it was simply luxurious, today; she had gotten some good deals from the Hub, and Greasy Sae was especially nice because of the situation with her mother. "Do you want some moatmeal today, Ash?" Asphodel asked, sweetly.

"MOATMEAL!" He screamed, his tiny arms flailing around but a big smile on his face; sometimes, Asphodel envied her little brother and how joyous he was all the time. In a way, she wished as though she could protect him from the evils of the world forever, but it seemed as though she couldn't be doing that forever and he would grow up soon enough.

Her grey eyes flicker as she walks over to the front door, picking up the oatmeal package that was already soaking wet from the slight thunderstorm that had occurred the night previous; she can see the amber specks while glancing sideways in the mirror, but all she sees is a girl with unnecessary optimism. Nothing unusual. Nevertheless, the oatmeal had been pricy but today was a special occasion and the food couldn't go to waste; Asphodel did any job she could to get money, and over the years, she had learned how to bake a bit, mine a bit, hunt a bit, and she often helped the town healer.

The bell rings and she immediately throws together a bowl of oatmeal, feeds Asher, and runs out the door, disregarding her appearance; once the bell rang, you must be in the Forum or face the Capitol's wrath, something that wasn't too she walks by, breaking into a slight sprint near the end, when she had nearly reached the place, her brother staying at home; he couldn't possibly watch something as horrible as the Reapings, though most younger siblings did, Asphodel tries her best to ignore the rows of haunted eyes, pointed collarbones, wasted and pale skin which yellows as badly as the children's rotting teeth.

"And your female tribute is," the man says, the gold mascara already slightly fading; Asphodel wished that she could just disappear, but she had to be strong. _Please don't be me, please don't be me, _"Asphodel—"

Asphodel sighed, pushing her way to the front of the crowd before her last name could be announced; something horrible like this was bound to happen and then she regretted her decision. What if somebody was going to volunteer for her? She brushed that idea out of her mind; the only volunteer in all of District Twelve's history had been Katniss Everdeen, all those years previous to the current. "Wax Staey!" The male tribute was announced mere seconds after, and a few giggles went through the crowd.

There was no way that this was going to be possible — somebody was going to speak up, and correct the Capitol man, right?

Wax Staey wasn't a male; Asphodel resisted the urge to sputter this out loud, to scream it for everybody to hear but then the mischevious blonde let out a slight laugh, and pressed a finger to his, no _her _lips, as to keep the secret. Asphodel just sighed, and carried out with the game. There was no reason to ponder upon the fact that she was going to die within the next few weeks, another girl from her district was dressing up like a boy to be a tribute in the Games, and her mother had a deadly illness that her brother couldn't possibly tend to.

Yeah, life was going great. Just great.

/

**DISTRICT THIRTEEN**

Delmer was restocking books at her grandfather's bookstore when somebody came crashing through the doors, demanding to see whoever owned the story; she scoffed, recognizing the voice of one of those women from the book club, who always wanted to read and return books even though those sort of tricks barely worked in the clothing shops and boutiques. She felt a sudden yank to her left arm and realized that one of her best friends, who was also seventeen, was pulling on her arm while her grandfather was distracted with another customer, and looked as though he was about to tear his hair — if he had _any left _— out. "Come on, Dels!"

"No," Delmer refuses, shaking of Maia's arm. Though Delmer was the stronger of the two, with a height around five feet and eight inches, being broad-shoulders and well muscled, she usually was the one who was able to get her way in things such as this, but she succumbed once again, her vibrant amber eyes slightly drooping as she sneaked out of the back door of the bookstore, hoping that her grandfather wouldn't notice.

Her raven black hair, wild and frizzy, tangled itself into knots and Delmer roughly brushed it through with her hand, never wondering for a moment why she was caring about her appearance now when she never did previously. "What are you even doing here, Maia?" Clever while being a mixture of witty and hyper, Maia usually never showed up at this part of town unless she needed a favor from Delmer — Maia's past time consisted of creating complicated strategies, to help those from her district that are reaped. Of course, they never end up listening because they think she's off her rocker, which makes sense for the most part.

"Don't you _remember _what's going to happen in two minutes—"

Delmer suddenly cut her off, remembering and breaking into a sprint, running down the deserted streets as the rest of the children had already been gathered; for a moment, Delmer wondered if she should run back to her house to pick up Deidre and Alexei, her two younger siblings who would also be participating in the Reapings though this was Alexei's first year, as a twelve year old. "We made it," she stops panting, running into the appropriate section before the reading of the card begins.

She finds herself on the stage minutes later, a dazed expression on her face and Alexei's starting to cry, tears running down his cheeks and Deidre just has a confused expression on her face, pinching herself repeatedly to make sure that this isn't a dream; and it isn't. It's more like a nightmare, a harsher version of reality.

Maverick Temple was her fellow tribute, Delmer realized — though he was from District 13, just like her, his father was the only victor that District 13 had, in all of their history and had perhaps a greater chance of winning than she did; after all, he was easy on the eyes and had a larger build, much like the rest of the Career tributes who would be joining them, and perhaps killing them, in the next few weeks. His bright blue eyes seemed friendly enough, but narrowed in a conniving manner upon their handshake and Delmer immediately wriggled out of his hand's tight grip and gave a lopsided smile to the crowd below.

_Happy Hunger Games, indeed. _

**a/n: ****This chapter was a bit rushed, sorry! But I absolutely hate reapings, and I'd rather just get them over with. ****If this was one of your tributes, please leave me a review to tell me how I did. If not, please leave a review about which POV start was your favorite. ****Remember, submitters, each (signed & anonymous —if you wish to be a sponsor, you can be anonymous) review counts as a point! I recommend stacking up your points early, because you'll need them routinely during the games. Also, each follow counts as a point. ****Also, sorry for the long break between updates and I'll try to update this story as soon as possible, but right now I'm trying to focus on the updates for my Gallagher Girls fic, the defiant ones. **

**Also, the first three reviewers will get their tribute(s) in the next chapter, along with three random assorted point of view's, :) **

Please review?

**x clara**


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